Category: Diary

Aureole over apparition winged and solennial: celestial slimikin starrified I have stibograms (facsimiles of your footfalls) etched in steam on glass. A golden yelve places embers on the deva thysiastery;

I burn sacrificial incense of protea and peony; Queen Anne’s lace and sea lavender are for your soteria; mikado apples burn to chocolately wenge, turn falu in fulvous flames. I wish for you in ciphertext; like the Rosetta Stone, I yen in glyphs. Like the scriptures I go between smoke and Hebrew, leaving Greek in the ashtray.

I pick up the phone, covered in pink, fluffy, faux fur. I call my bestfriend, Niobe, and we talk for hours about the beach house we’re going to build when we run away together.

We’ve got everything planned. I can see it:

Seashells and barnacles tup with pure gold doorknocker earrings in our jewelry boxes; we stay up late listening to the ocean moan to god while we watch lascivious red light specials and dream about skinny dipping.

In the afternoon on the next day, our golden retriever jaunts giddily as we chase it with a stick, laughing like lunatics, playing reverse fetch. Down in the baked, luminous sand we nuzzle our dog, Kizzie, and eat whatever we want–and I mean whatever we want.

I hold Niobe’s hand, and wipe mustard from the corners of her crumby mouth, licking my fingertip sensually afterwards. I’ve seen a lesbian couple do this in an obscure movie.

On misty morning walks, we’re mistaken for lifetime partners and lovers as we sweep the gilded sandman from each other’s canthi.

Together, we own exactly one bike that we ride every Thursday to the local grocers. The bike is canary yellow with a glossy finish, a large, brown wicker basket, and a shiny bell. Its a Vintage make with huge wheels and ribbons on the handlebars.

(I name our bike Rita, after the Italian ice place where I met Niobe as a gap toothed, big headed kid. She had dimples and a satiny kiddie perm that produced sumptuous pigtails to past her shoulders. She bought me ice cream and we’ve been inseparable since.)

Niobe rides on the handlebars, her full bottom making a soft, inverted heart in her distressed blue jeans. I steer badly, inciting her mock ire.

On a straight stretch of road, I stop steering , but keep peddling. I cinch my arms around her doughy waist, my nose pressed to her sweaty back, my fingers spread and preying for higher, softer ground; I search for her sweet fruit until I break her boughs; her leaves and scented, sap studded branches raining down on me as we collapse into the grass; sunshine, bike, and all.

That’s when I realize that we are not friends.

Because, ‘scuse me as I get blunt: sexual peaches ain’t for no apple-pickin’ friends; just like cobbler ain’t for bad kids, nor easter egg hunts after church in the hot sun. No. You been the devil’s help in Sunday service all morn. Your mama done sweated her lortdang press out and aint waiting in nobody’s hot ass sun for your bad ass to find a sulfur smellin’ egg in a bush.

So no, I don’t get to squeeze on Niobe’s pleasurable bubblegum bubble curves, Niobe tells me. She says no as she tenderly leads my rough, slim hands to all of the places I am absolutely under no circumstances to touch. She says she is a Missourian who believes in showing and not telling.

It is here, that we have our FRIED GREEN TOMATOES rubicon moment: my fingers graze her chocolate dipped milk mounds, part her pillowy legs, bathe in sacred coves of pink salt stone in the quiet grass. The road is empty and we foment all alone like Mentos in a glass of cherry Coke.

There is something so soothing and magical in the white, concentric ripples out on the lake. Lately, I’ve been so ensconced in the pheramone induced dopamine high of fresh lust, that I’ve neglected good ole mindfulness.

I feel so calm outside of the periphery of workplace drama, telenovela like romance, and melancholy. I feel calm while here at the lake; drakes and geese dapple the snowy light on the water with pallid umbra, and remind me of the romance of nature.

It’s like being on one of those antebellum, plantation style, wrap-round porches in The Notebook; and for five minutes, I’m not longing for Noah.

The aubergine tint in the coital smell of lightly mussed linens; the mauve in sensual leather and vanilla musk; the clitoral wetness in petrichor and Dolce&Gabbana light blue: these smells show tangled sounds in human paint at bed ‘n’ breakfast noon.

Don’t you wish that after gorging yourself with a frothy red velvet concrete shake (decked out with rainbow sprinkles, cake bits, and whipped cream) that your butt would boat instead of your stomach???

Summer is in the back of her throat, wrapped in a delicate wax paper mache of tropic banana leaves.

The clouds in the sky above her look like puffy coat lapels, or like pubescent pouts post the negative vacuum of a shot glass per the Kylie Jenner lip challenge.

All around, the leaves craft aeolian chrysalises; you can taste the pre-gold fulvid beer, and the sumptuous boudinnoir in their pigments.

Leaves of Uruguayan blood pudding lie crisp in the grass; next to them, icy orange peels with sugar rinds that are buttoned down with tumeric candied dates. Rich head cheese jellies and prairie oysters paint colors of carné on ash blonde lawns.

Autumnby paints gold dust on underbrush flanking the dirt path through the woods. Her chocolate brown afro curls turn a cool blue in the dusk.

She is swathed in an oversized white plush cowl, her bluish curls making a halo around her mahogany face.

Her magic swirls around her; fall time fortunes fill an ivory tusk cornucopia with the pollen of golden wish dust: crabapples, hard cider, maize moonshine, fermented berries and buttery gourds tumble from her lips into the fog.

Autumnby hangs wishes from the coat hooks of peeling tree bark, from the lose threads in dew studded spider webs, and from the figgy purplish-sables of rotting rose thistles.

Have you seen this little witch granting wishes in your neck of the woods today?